Lady in the Streets but a Freak in the Sheets
by sniperrifle001
Summary: The Secret Diary of Lady Mary Crawley. A companion piece to The Collected Letters. The title says it all but for the obtuse; SMUT WARNING.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**Sticky note by Stephen Lamar, left on the desk of Sybil Branson, beside an unbounded manuscript, July 16th, 1985**

_Sybbie, we have to talk about this!_

_Stephen_

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 9:45 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Subject:<strong> One last desperate plea

I give up,

well I have and I haven't. I don't have anymore tricks up my sleeve. I don't have anymore slick marketing pitches, no more numbers and charts. I'm not even here to fight. I'm just begging now. And it's not even about the money, truly, it's not. Even if the illustrated hardcover special edition of The Collected Letters sold like a bazillion copies.

So please, I _am _begging you, both of you, I swear I'm typing this on my knees, to reconsider. It won't be much work. We don't need the extensive first hand interviews and the fictionalization like last time. We don't need to vet the diary, we don't need to do any of the labourious research of the last book. We just need permission.

So please, I'm begging you,

Stephen  
>Senior Editor<br>Yule Tree Publishing House

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:12 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: One last desperate plea

How many times do I have to say no?

Anastasia Crawley

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:13 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: One last desperate plea

Did you even ask her?

Stephen  
>Senior Editor<br>Yule Tree Publishing House

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:15 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

Do you know what Einstein said about insanity?

Anastasia Crawley

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:16 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

For the record, she never said no. She just said that it was never the right time.

Stephen  
>Senior Editor<br>Yule Tree Publishing House

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:17 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

And you think this is the right time?

Anastasia Crawley

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:16 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

I'm coming up to visit in a couple of days. I'm going to ask her if you don't.

Stephen  
>Senior Editor<br>Yule Tree Publishing House

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:17 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

Just so we're absolutely clear. You're asking me to ask my aunt, to let you publish my grandmother's private sex diary?

Anastasia Crawley

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:20 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

Yes.

Stephen  
>Senior Editor<br>Yule Tree Publishing House

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:21 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

Have you no shame?

Anastasia Crawley

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:25 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

Well… would you even believe me?

Stephen  
>Senior Editor<br>Yule Tree Publishing House

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:30 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

No, no, I wouldn't. But I will ask her, just so you don't come up here and disturb her in her last days with such a vulgar request in your even more vulgar manner. You know, you KNOW, this isn't what she envisioned when she started compiling The Collected Letters right?

Anastasia Crawley

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 6th, 1998 11:37 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

To be honest,

we didn't expect the public response to be so… rapturous. We didn't think that it would go through multiple editions, we didn't think that we could get away with a 100 dollar, illustrated, hardcover edition, or to sell the movie rights… but we did.

Stephen  
>Senior Editor<br>Yule Tree Publishing House

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 7th, 1998 10:30 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

I can't believe I'm writing this… she said yes. She had totally forgotten about all of this until now and she said that it was now or never. I think she's completely lost it. She told me, my grandmother was "a lady in the streets, but a freak in the sheets". That's what she wants to title to be, by the way...

Anastasia Crawley

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> stephen  
><strong>Sent:<strong> Tuesday, January 7th, 1998 11:05 AM  
><strong>To:<strong> anastasiacrawley  
><strong>Subject:<strong> RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: One last desperate plea

:)

Hallelujah

Stephen  
>Senior Editor<br>Yule Tree Publishing House

**A/N:** This is a delicate thing I'm trying out. Hope you like the prologue lol. Not quite what you expected? I'll try to do it right, I want to be sexy and racy and even boundary pushing while still tasteful, intimate, and emotionally complex. Do you guys trust me?


	2. Preface

**Preface**

_It was always a surprise, a rush, a thrill, even after countless years of marriage, and thousands of nights together in the same bed, when he would wake me in up in the middle of the night by the grip on his forceful yet loving hands, and the thrust of his hips. It was a dance, a ritual, a manifestation of our love in every sense. Beautiful, torrid, bitter-sweet, and passionate, without words, for that's how we were in those days and in some ways, those habits never left us. Sometimes his hands would travel up my nightgown and massage my breasts, sometimes he would lift my leg up and hold tightly onto my feet, and sometimes he would merely slide his hands into mine, as he thrusts deeply into me. I sang for him my siren song, moaning and breathing heavily as he enjoyed me, tortured me. _

_Usually, I was only half-awake, staring at the moonlight outside as it illuminated our midnight ritual, but I lived for those moments. I lived for our breathless and wordless intimacy. What pleasure, what indescribable pleasure. I always felt badly for those couples forced into marriages of convenience, and I pitied those of my parents generation, resorting to secret affairs to achieve a fraction of what I had with Matthew._

_It always always slow at first, with a languid and deliberate motions, but eventually, inevitably, he would lean into me, press his chest to my back, wrap his arms around my breasts, plant his mouth into my shoulders, and furiously take me until I screamed. Truth be told, most of the time he was using me. He used my body to purge himself of all of the rage and fear and anguish that had so plagued him after the war. Even years afterwards, when things seemed to be better, as his scars faded, and his sunny demeanour in large part returned to him, there was always a part of him that never left that battlefield. So in the dead of night, when he had his night terrors, when the sound of machine guns rang in his ear, he would grab hold of me and fucked me until the war had been expelled from his veins. And I let him. Because I loved him. I loved him so much. His pain became my pleasure, his anguish became my duty. I was his wife and he was my husband, I would've died for him._

_Afterwards, when his muscles relaxed and his trembling faded, he would always turn me around to face him. Sometimes, he would apologize profusely when he thought he was too rough, but he never was, but mostly he would kiss me tenderly, until eventually, in his loving embrace, I would fall back asleep again, almost as if the whole thing were a mere dream._

To some of you, this is passage holds no surprise whatsoever. For those of you who have read _The Collected Letters_, this is nothing more than a stroll down memory lane. But to me, reading the words of my grandmother, who told me to how to behave at the dinner table, who taught me in the importance of manners and propriety, who gave me a scolding about getting grass stains on my dress, this is quite shocking. In many ways, some of you knew my grandmother far better than I did. And while you knew her through the lens of my aunt's reconstruction of my grandmother and grandfather's youth, it is a narrative I dare not contradict.

This volume was born out of precarious circumstances. And while I was hesitant, even downright hostile at first, at the idea of publishing my grandmother's secret diary, I see now, that it is much more than just lurid curiosity that drives the demand for this book. Through countless fan letters, I have come to realize that you have all, in some way or another, fallen in love with my the story of my grandparents. Truth be told, so have I.

And while I can never completely rid myself of the comfortable fact that I will always see my grandmother, Mary, as the serious old woman, with shiny white hair and a formidable, if not entirely ferocious gaze, watchful as a hawk, even in her advanced years, I can recognize that she was far more than merely that. To my grandfather, to the world of her youth, and to the loyal readership of _The Collected Letters_. And as for my bias, that is my cross to bear alone, for my grandmother, deserves far more, and was far more, than I gave her credit for in my adolescent years.

So as a token of my appreciation, for all of the support and love, both for memory of my grandparents, and the exhaustive and comprehensive work of my aunt, I present to you, Lady in the Streets but a Freak in the Sheets: The Secret Diary of Lady Mary Crawley.

(I still hate that title)

Anastasia Crawley

North Castle, New York

April 6th, 1999


	3. Chapter 1

**April 19th, 1917**

_It was as if I truly saw him, all of him, for the first time. He was beautiful and haunting all at once. His shoulders were stiff and his arms were lean. His skin was pale with patches of deep purple. He was scarred all over. To be sure, I had never seen him this bare before and it certainly wasn't what I had imagined. He was just like the men in the photos from the newspapers. The glow in his eyes was fading. The gentle soul, that I disdained so painfully in my foolish youth, had withered and grown numb. He wore the posture of a broken man and the expression of a ghost. He was adept at hiding his anguish when he was among officers and the family. He spoke with a cheerful voice and carried himself with a friendly demeanour. On some level, I knew that he was just trying to shield us from the horrors of the front. I did not fully appreciate, the extent of this deception._

_How painful he was to behold. How I longed to love him; to hold him in my arms and to kiss him. To try to make him believe, when he had lost hope in all things and all people, he did not have to bear the weight of this war alone, as he had committed himself to doing. That I did not want him gone, that even if he had made me his heiress and left Downton in my sole charge, I would not want it._

_And despite everything, despite his bruises and his scars, despite his frailty and his heavy posture, or even perhaps, because of it. I never wanted him more. This was Matthew Crawley as I have never seen him before, raw, authentic, unhampered by the expectations and dress of society, and if he was a little sad, it made him all the more desirable. In some strange way, in a way that I don't fully understand myself, I found his vulnerability alluring, his ruffian exterior exciting. Perhaps, the years of propriety and manners have taken its toll on me, or perhaps it was simply the fact that it was Matthew and even after all these long years, I still love him fiercely, but I wanted him in a way I've never wanted anyone before. Not even Pamuk._

_Is there something wrong with me? Had I been permanently damaged by that horrible experience? Was Edith right? Am I a slut? I'm not married to him. And what of Lavinia? Poor sweet Lavinia, I can't help how I feel about him and if I am to hurt you in the coming days, I am truly sorry. But he inspires in me something that I should only feel for my husband._

**April 20th, 1917**

_I had a dream…_

_No, it wasn't just a dream. It was something more. I can't describe it fully, words would never do it justice. It engulfed all of my senses and more. I saw him, in the pale glow of the moonlight. We were in the middle of a field, caressed by the gentle breeze of spring. He told me that he loved me and that he never wanted to be without me. What cruel tricks the mind plays on the body. He asked me to cling to him, so I did. He was like a mountain and I held onto his crevices. He was rough and gentle at the same time. He entered me with the fury and desire of a man who has not known to company of women for years, desperate, hungry, and wanton. I took him as best I could but of course it was nothing I was prepared for. I remember look into his eyes scared. What did he think of me? Was I a slut to him? Did he want me inspite of it? Or because of it? I was such a vain flirt when we first met. I thought him not good enough for me. Now I know it was the complete opposite. But he cradle my head and stared deep into my eyes, those eyes, sad and lonely, how I wanted to take all of that away from him, lay that burden upon me, so I took him instead, again and again. It felt like the first time, it was my first time. At least it was when I was there, in the dream. All those of Pamuk, all worries, and consternations; gone._

_I moan, with every kiss and every caress, I can't help but moan. Is this what it is to make love? Is this what it is to be with Matthew Crawley? Then I wake up, in a cold sweat and a shortness of breath. I slowly come to my senses, as if calming down from a sense of euphoria. What is this feeling? I wondered what just happened. I lay in my bed for a while longer, retrying to reconstruct the memories and desperately trying to relive them. That's why I'm writing all of this down. I'm keeping this extremely private. Which is why I started this diary, separate from my usual one. For the love of God, Edith cannot find out about this. Anna doesn't even know about it._

_It may be foolish to record these thoughts at all, dangerous even._

_But I don't want to forget._

**A/N: **There's a little (well not so little) continuity Easter egg in this chapter, 2 points if you know what it is.


End file.
